


Handle Me With Care

by TeasTakingOver



Category: Rhett & Link, rhink - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Kinda, M/M, Oneshot, rhink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6048592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeasTakingOver/pseuds/TeasTakingOver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Link likes being taken care of gently by his large lover. A short one shot I wrote on a rainy day. Names are not really spoken, and it's really vague and not really smutty. It also has a lot of metaphors. I hope you like it though! </p>
<p>This goes through different stages of the Rhink relationship! Told in Link's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle Me With Care

I always joke about how you are a gentle giant. How you’re 6’7 and your feet will sometimes fall off the sides of the bed because it’s too small and we can’t buy a new one just yet, so instead you’ll cover me with your limbs. Always careful not to lay too heavy on me. 

On the warm days you’ll lay in a starfish formation and let me sleep on you, tucked under one of your arms and legs tangled with yours. 

Whenever we go clothes shopping, we can never find pants that are long enough for you. I’ll joke that your ankles are the tannest part of your body, and you’ll chuckle, blue eyes shimmering like waves on the summer day you got that tan. 

On the cold days we are wrapped in two separate blankets because one can hardly go around both of us comfortably. Still, you’ll wrap a long arm around me and harness me to you. One on going joke is that I sleep with “reckless abandon” and you’re making sure I don’t roll off the mattress. 

Whenever we are in a restaurant, or just having coffee together, when we are relishing a few moments of silence and admiring each other's bed heads or dress shirts, you’ll lay your hand on mine. Not with a squeeze, or forcing my hand to hold yours. No. It’s more like the soft blanket I am wrapped in still under your arm every night. Comfortable. My form of intimate. 

Because you know that’s how I am comfortable. 

The first time you handled me with such care, you treated me like a simple pane of glass. I was nervous, and still as you gingerly placed your lips on mine. You were careful not to move too much because you did not want to scratch my face with your freshly trimmed beard. Emotions hit me like a pebble on a window, and like so, I shook and trembled, trying not to break under your strong hands gripping mine. I felt so fragile in that moment, so vulnerable. 

But I laid my palms on your chest and slowly laced the shirt between my fingers, kneading you back but still kissing you with the vibrating emotions still shocking through me. You took the hint and relaxed your hold on me. 

Months later, I was a hollow glass marble. Moving under every shaking ground I found myself standing on with you. When you held my hand, it was like a breath ghosted over me, threatening to move me, which relaxed when you looked me in the eye and told me you would take care of me. You already knew I felt vulnerable. You knew that if that marble were to drop, I would break. But you showed me you would never let that happen. You showed me you care.

On rainy nights, pillows would surround us and you’d make pasta for us to dine on as we watched television or Netflix. No matter where we were, we were comfortable. I could sit upright, or lay on my side, or starfish like you do, and everything would be comfortable. Your feet would be propped up on the coffee table usually, and we’d place our empty pasta bowls there to dine on later. 

I’d look at the glass bowls next to your big feet and think of myself as one as well. Sometimes filled with savory soup on the days was sick, or holding sweet ice cream when you’d be suffering back pains and I wanted to cheer you up. But mainly, these bowls are usually clean and stared away, waiting for a use. I think of how you could easily knock the bowls to the hardwood floor with a careless sweep of your foot. The glass would fall and crack, or shatter completely. Who’s to say? 

Once again, however, you take the utmost care and move your feet without hitting the bowls. “I’ll do the dishes tonight.” You offer. I smile and nuzzel against my many pillows. I thank you. As I looked up at you, I saw your eyes shine again, like a picture frame showing an image of innocence and love. 

On the night of our first time sleeping together, I was a vase in an earthquake. The experience was new and scary. I was scared that you would leave me afterwards. But no.

I quivered in fear of rejection and excitement. You ran your fingers up the curves of my sides gently, as if trying to calm me, but still causing tremors in the water. You felt every inch of me not as a test, but as a claim. Feeling your heavy, hot breath mingle with mine caused small waves within me that fueled the tsunami to come. Never before had I felt so close to breaking and still loving every minute of it. The way our bodies moved in sync and lust threatened to knock over the vase completely, to spill the waters you disturbed within me. 

Every Time you whispered “I love you” in right next to my ear, I felt the magnitude shoot up. 

And even as the tsunami flooded over the sides and we knocked over the newly cracked vase, making a mess I was too tired to clean up, you gently placed flowers in it. You left it as it was. You did not care that my body was not perfect, nor that the vase was now broken in. You loved me. I thought you loved the broken piece of glass, but no. You showed me with a gentle kiss on my forehead that I was not impure. I was forged in the flames of our passion. 

The flowers you left in the glass vase were the same roses seen months later in a chapel. I shook, holding the stem between two fingers. Anxiety was acting like a ball to a thick paned window, constantly hitting it and threatening to break glass all over the petal-covered carpet. 

But you took my free hand in yours- handling me with care- and placed your other hand on my cheek. I looked up to your eyes, reflecting sunlight like the jewels on an old crown. You’ve seen so many others, and yet, as I gathered the courage to reach up and slip the rose behind your ear, nestled against your dirty blonde hair, I realized you chose to stay with me. Even after all my cracks and breaks and drops, you still loved me, and all my imperfections.

At that moment, I realized that I am no longer glass, but now the diamond ring you slip on my finger.


End file.
